


The Direction of Sunbeams

by SpectacularlyIgnorant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:06:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpectacularlyIgnorant/pseuds/SpectacularlyIgnorant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrapped together under their sheets they were too warm, too tired to wonder about the humming. When they awoke it would be forgotten again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Direction of Sunbeams

_The keeping of bees is like the direction of sunbeams._

_-Henry David Thoreau_  

 

The low hum was constant. Day and night it could be heard reverberating through the orchards, pulsing into the farthest reaches of the garden. They never remembered it was there until the night, when they closed their eyes and the sound filled their heads. But wrapped together under their sheets they were too warm, too tired to wonder about the noise. When they awoke it would be forgotten again.

Their days in that place were seamed together perfectly, sewn with the invisible thread of the buzzing. Each day passed peacefully into the next, giving little reason to listen for anything amiss. They never looked closely enough to see the detail until one cold, drizzling morning when they listened for the first time and the stitches of their days finally became clear to them.

Sitting at the whitewashed breakfast table and warming themselves with their tea mugs, they stared out the kitchen windows and watched the ocean churning fitfully below. As they watched, the crashing of the waves slowly abated and the dark green of the ocean surface stilled. At first only silence pressed upon their ears, but they soon noticed the swelling hum rising from across the orchard.

"Have you noticed that before?" John whispered. It felt wrong to break the quiet with his words.

Sherlock only shook his head as he drank the dregs of his tea that had now gone cold.

The ocean was still frozen, an expanse of green glass below them. The unmoving mirror of its surface was somehow a call to action. All other sounds had now shrunk away and the one sound left was calling to them.

They donned their raincoats, pulled on their boots, and stepped into the mud of mid spring. Carefully they passed through the garden and into the orchard, where the hum became louder. Their breaths made no sound as they walked under the apple trees and rain trickled down on them through their leaves.

The uniform lines of fruit trees ended and their feet carried them on into a grassy area they had never been before. It was surprising to learn that the world continued beyond the house, the waves, and the orchard. In that place they had everything they needed. They had never even imagined that anything could exist beyond them.

A single bee flew lazily above them, its wings catching the glow of the improbable sunlight that cut through the rain. They followed the insect through the wild grass, the humming growing louder all the while, and soon they came to a cluster of white bee boxes.

"The humming," Sherlock murmured with a small smile.

Standing there next to a cloud of bees tending to their hives, the sound filled John's ears and suddenly he remembered… Remembered the nights as he drifted to sleep with the sound of the buzzing carrying him into dreams.

"They've been waiting for us," John said slowly. "How long have they been here?"

The days were perfectly blended together. He couldn't even remember a time before the salty air and the fresh apples, the tea-filled mornings and the crashing waves.

Sherlock was approaching the bees, holding out his hands and catching at their small bodies. They landed on him and crawled across his skin, making him smile. He turned to look back at John where he stood at a safe distance. "They're friendly. Come closer."

John could feel a tugging in his head, a memory surfacing. He recalled these animals from a time long before now. He could remember his small hands reaching out to the strange black and yellow stripes... A sharp pain in his arm… A familiar woman standing up from a blanket on the grass, coming over to him. Tears.

"I promise. They won't hurt you." Sherlock was beckoning to John, careful not to upset the bees that had landed on his arms.

John approached slowly, jumping as the first bee settled on his shoulder. He screwed his eyes shut when more came, but soon realized that none were hurting him. Warily, he opened his eyes and watched as several more insects landed on his sleeve.

"Do you remember a time before now?" John asked quietly, looking around at the cloud of yellow and black that danced around him.

Sherlock looked up at him. For the first time John noticed small wrinkles around his eyes. Had those been there before?

"A time before now?" Sherlock looked confused.

"I remembered the first time John saw a bee," John explained. "It wasn't here. It was a different place. I was very small."

His words were swallowed in the drone of the hive. He let them go and pushed the memories from his mind.

Walking back with honeycomb in their hands, they treaded along the edge of the cliff that was the only thing separating them from the ocean below. The waves were crashing against the shore once more; the sea had returned to its normal state while they were preoccupied with the bees.

Suddenly Sherlock stopped and gazed down at the water. "Why have we never gone swimming?" he questioned.

John stood next to him and felt a honeycomb-free hand wrap around his waist. He leaned against the taller man and breathed in deeply. They both smelled of bees and honey. "It's too cold. Let's wait until summer," he said softly.

They walked back to the lone white house together, licking the raw honey off their fingertips as they went.

Their days following the discovery of the hives were filled with honey. They visited the bees often and brought small amounts of their comb back with them when they had tired of the buzzing. They watched as the days became less grey and the flowers opened and lit the garden with splashes of color.

It was less cold, though still not warm, when Sherlock announced that he was going swimming.

"I can't wait any longer," he admitted as he gathered their empty mugs into the sink. "Come with me?"

They scaled the small rock cliff and found themselves on a rocky beach. The salt was thick in the air, but the waves weren't so loud that their words would be snatched away if they spoke.

They walked together into the path of a wave and let the water run over their toes.

"It's not as cold as I thought it would be," John confessed, walking in deeper. He looked back when he realized he wasn't being followed.

Sherlock was standing very still, staring out at the water with glazed eyes. "I just remembered."

"Something from another place?" John questioned.

Sherlock nodded. "I remember… Collecting seashells. Studying footprints in the sand. Feeling the sun burn my skin." There was confusion and fear in his eyes. "There was something before this."

John took his hand and led Sherlock into the sea with him, where they treaded water and tried to forget the unearthed memories. By the time they tumbled back to the house, their fingers cold, dripping with salt water, they'd forgotten again.

Still, every so often, a new memory would spark. Little things would take them back to that other place. They learned to accept these fragments and the unnamed fear that had once accompanied them lessened with time. Sometimes, when they sipped tea by the fire and the rain slapped against the roof of the house, they shared their memories as stories. Sometimes they left them unsaid.

Perhaps there was another place before this. Although they could never know the truth, there was comfort in not knowing. All that mattered was that they were at peace in this place, amongst the constant hum of the bees.


End file.
